


Do Re Mi

by thepetulantpen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, could be shippy or platonic, pure fluff, up to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen
Summary: Jaskier wouldn’t call himself a fickle sleeper, though he supposes it wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate to say he is an inconsistent one.Some nights, he sleeps like the dead, out as soon as he hits the pillow, and it takes significant force for Geralt to shake him awake. Other nights, he tosses and turns, bad memories or restless thoughts nagging him awake like an overly chatty bedfellow.Tonight is definitely one of the latter.Jaskier and Geralt have trouble sleeping.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 346
Collections: Best Geralt





	Do Re Mi

Jaskier wouldn’t call himself a fickle sleeper, though he supposes it wouldn’t be _entirely_ inaccurate to say he is an inconsistent one. 

Some nights, he sleeps like the dead, out as soon as he hits the pillow, and it takes significant force for Geralt to shake him awake. Other nights, he tosses and turns, bad memories or restless thoughts nagging him awake like an overly chatty bedfellow. 

Tonight is definitely one of the latter. 

He doesn’t know exactly how late it is, he’s been in and out for what feels like _days_ , but the candle has long since burned itself out and the moon is high in the sky, shining through the window and hurting his eyes. There’s a stubborn chill in the air that only gets worse the longer he’s awake. 

It’s frustrating because there aren’t even nightmares to blame; he just _can’t_ turn his mind off. His thoughts have become cyclical, reminding him again and again of mistakes in performances from years ago, or running through problems he can’t possibly fix from his bed in the middle of the night, or simply pondering song ideas that remain half-forgotten in the haze of exhaustion and abandoned dreams. 

This, he thinks, is why Geralt is so useful. During the daytime, he could talk for hours to the brick wall on his horse, divesting himself of pesky thoughts that get absorbed in dismissive _hms_. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate to let his thoughts develop instantly into words, releasing his mind from their weight, but he’s absolutely not willing to test if the witcher’s patience extends to the early hours of the morning. 

So, he’s resigned himself to quietly sitting up beside Geralt in their shared bed (they could only afford one, which is terribly cliché, reminds him of a book he read ages ago about a man- gods, he’s doing it again. Stop. Thinking.) and fussing with his notebook. He can’t write, not without light, but doodling gives his hands something to do and distracts him somewhat from his spiraling, overwhelmingly numerous thoughts. 

Three attempts at a werewolf later, he feels the bed shift. In the darkness, his mind is quick to jump to absurdity- picturing all the monsters that could possibly fit under the bed and are intent on eating them alive- but his eyes, adjusted to the dark by now, catch the movement of Geralt turning onto his side.

Of course, the idea of a witcher turning in his sleep is almost more absurd than the idea of monsters under the bed. Jaskier has never known Geralt to be anything but stock still when he sleeps, like a rock despite the hyper-senses that start him awake at first sound, or smell, of trouble. Still, it’s been a rough few weeks, between the incessant snowfall and pesky drowners, so a bit of restlessness is probably warranted. Even in a mutant. 

His mind starts down another rabbit hole of hypotheticals about drowners and his fingers occupy themselves with a lumpy rendition of the monster in his notebook when the bed creaks again, this time as Geralt rolls over, facing Jaskier. 

The witcher’s face is pinched in an awful, silent snarl and the crease between his eyebrows reads as pain. A nightmare, then. A rather nasty one, if it’s managed to bother _Geralt_ , the fearless witcher. 

Instinctively, Jaskier reaches out to wake him but he retracts his hand at the last second, realizing that Geralt could break his fingers in the moment of waking before he recognizes him as an ally. The thought leaves his hand hovering over Geralt’s tense, sleeping form, unable to help.

Probably best to let him to ride it out. Whatever monsters plague Geralt’s sleeping mind are as far out of Jaskier’s expertise as the real, waking ones. 

Jaskier sits back, resolving to keep watch until Geralt wakes or the dark dreams pass. He doesn’t have to wait long; nightmares are a funny thing, dragging on for the victim but over in moments to an observer. Jaskier can see the moment of terror, the height of the dream, in the hitch of Geralt’s breath, but in a second it’s over, smoothed by a deep breath and chased away by Geralt opening his eyes. 

Jaskier counts his blessings that Geralt isn’t a violent dreamer, he doesn’t think he would survive close proximity with Geralt sleep-fighting. 

“You alright?”

The witcher startles, like a cat in the way his shoulders hunch and his yellow eyes latch onto Jaskier. Likely forgot he had company.

“Fine.”

Fine, right. Doesn’t want to talk about it, then, as usual. He’d have been more concerned if the answer was honest, for once. 

Geralt turns again, toward the wall, and makes like he’s going back to sleep, like he’d _meant_ to wake up to... check on things, or something, but Jaskier sees that the tension clings stubbornly to his shoulders, refusing to give in to the slow rhythm of the witcher’s breathing. Finally, he gives up, propping himself up on an elbow to look up at Jaskier. 

“What about you?” Even in the dark, Geralt’s eyes must catch Jaskier pulling a face, so he adds, clarifying, “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Alas, your poor bard is being tormented by sleeplessness. My own brilliant, imaginative mind has turned against me, and is keeping me up.”

“Sounds like you’re getting a taste of your own medicine.”

Jaskier snorts and looks away from Geralt, back to his notebook. “Your barbs aren’t nearly as sharp when you’re tired.” 

“Hmm.”

Jaskier expects that to be it, the grunt serving as a bookend on their late night chat. He presumes the meaning to be “fuck off now, I’m going to sleep”, but translating single-syllables isn’t an exact science so he’s not completely surprised to see Geralt haul himself into a sitting position beside him and give him an odd look. Looks are more difficult to distinguish between than grunts; this one in particular is baffling, Jaskier can’t even guess what the intense eye contact is meant to tell him. 

“Am I being stared down for a reason?” Jaskier glances over his shoulder, at the rest of the empty inn room. “Are you seeing something I’m not? Is there a vampire lurking behind the closet? Geralt, you know you’re contractually obligated to inform me of such things, since I can’t see in the dark unlike some—“

“There’s no vampire.”

“A werewolf, then? Striga? Drowner?”

The last question earns Jaskier a glare that almost makes him break character with a grin. Geralt’s face does lose some of its tension, though he tries to hide the amusement with a responding growl.

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

Jaskier knows he’s poking an increasingly temperamental and grumpy bear by playing dumb but, honestly, he’s tired too, and Geralt is going to have to give him some real sentences if he wants something. Behind the hazy curtain of darkness, Geralt’s expression is cycling through the five stages of grief before ending on a face Jaskier knows very well, one he affectionately refers to as “slightly constipated”. 

Geralt scowls, as if Jaskier is to blame for the society he lives in that’s built around _talking_. The words seem to struggle their way out of his mouth, simultaneously being held back and dragged kicking and screaming. 

“I can’t sleep.” 

“I gathered that much on my own, actually. You’ve witnessed so much of my genius but you still somehow think I’m as thick as your _skull_ -“ Jaskier cuts himself off at Geralt’s groan, remembering to lower his voice, “Really, Geralt, what do you want me to do?”

“I just- I was _going_ to ask,” Geralt lays back down, staring up at the ceiling as an excuse not to look at Jaskier, “What do you do, when you can’t sleep?” 

Jaskier blinks, surprised (though, after all these years, he really _shouldn’t_ be) at the simple question. His thoughts are slowed for the first time all night as he summons the necessary wits for an answer. 

“Oh, I usually just wait it out.” He gestures with his notebook, showing Geralt a flash of terrible drawings. Then, sensing Geralt’s dissatisfaction, he admits, “But, in particularly desperate cases, I listen to you sleeping. Your breaths are normally slow, but when you’re sleeping, it’s… soothing.” 

Geralt frowns, confused or annoyed, but Jaskier doesn’t bother deciphering it. 

He’s preoccupied with wrinkling up his nose and looking, contemplating, out the window. “I suppose that doesn’t help you at all, does it?”

“No. But I’m sorry to deprive you of your lullaby.”

It’s meant to be sarcastic, but Jaskier approaches it seriously, changing his tune quickly, as he is prone to. 

“It’s no trouble. You know, my mother always told me that rest, stillness, was just as good as sleep if you couldn’t manage it.” 

Geralt hums and Jaskier thinks he understands this one, can hear the mixture of _“I doubt that”_ and _“I’ve been there”_ hidden behind the simple sound. His mother’s advice reminds Jaskier of Geralt’s meditations and he briefly wonders why he’s not doing that _now_ , but he quickly chocks it up to witcher-y nonsense. 

Silence fills the space again and, in the lull, Jaskier feels his thoughts clawing their way back into his head. Rhetorical questions about witchers collide with memories of sleepless nights from his childhood. He’s in the middle of considering whether he’d ever be capable of meditation when he manages to shake himself out of it, refocusing on Geralt, who’s gone back to staring at him. 

“Ah, I know how I could help you,” Jaskier graciously ignores Geralt’s apprehensive grimace and sits up straighter, taken by the idea, “If I fall asleep, perhaps _you_ can listen to _me_. Having a proper rhythm to copy is half the battle.”

“But you can’t sleep.”

Leave it to Geralt to point out the logical fallacies in his half-asleep suggestions. _He_ should try coming up with something that makes sense after being awake for over half the night, on top of walking all day.

“I _couldn’t_ sleep, but that was before I had motivation.”

The opportunity for teasing makes Geralt smile, less restrained when he’s clearly exhausted. “Oh? And what’s your plan for forcing yourself to fall asleep, after failing for several hours?”

“No need to get snippy with me, _I’m_ trying to help. Unlike _someone_ , who’s shooting down all my ideas.” Jaskier scolds, but there’s no bite to it, not with how his voice trails off as he thinks through possibilities. “I suppose I could recite some old music lessons. Those always used to put me to sleep.”

“Gods, _no_ , Jaskier—“

“Hush. They’re _dreadfully_ boring, maybe that’s all you need to force your mind to escape into unconsciousness.” 

Geralt presses his hands to his eyes, hoping enough pressure will knock him out. “I’ll probably be forced to throw myself out the window first.”

“As if that’d kill you. Might as well just use the door, at that point.”

There’s a minute where Geralt seems like he considers it, looking over at the door with rare indecision plain on his face. He realizes, as Jaskier knew he would, that there’s nothing he could do outside this room that’s more appealing than allowing Jaskier to attempt to put him to sleep. 

Geralt flips onto his side and puts a pillow over his head, which Jaskier takes as permission to start. The witcher listens through the weak defense of the pillow as Jaskier, true to his word, begins going through the motions of what he calls “basic vocal exercises”. 

Though Geralt has never heard them in all their years of travelling together, they must have been deeply ingrained at some point, judging by the ease with which Jaskier recites them. Perhaps the bard’s claims of proper musical education have more truth to them than Geralt assumed. 

The “exercise” mainly consists of the repetition of rhythmic, looping phrases that are designed to make an untrained tongue trip over them. Geralt can, on some level, appreciate the skill it takes for Jaskier to move through all of them without stumbling once. 

His respect, however, is quickly replaced by irritation, with his patience evaporating rapidly under the corrosion of the grating sound. The tongue-twisters are as forgettable as they are completely inane and, as Jaskier promised, they are mind-numbingly dull. 

_Especially_ after the fifth recital. 

Geralt reconsiders leaving the room or at least trying to discover which combination of potions will put him in a coma, when Jaskier suddenly changes tact. 

Transitioning with a short huff of impatience (at either himself or the witcher, Geralt can’t be sure), Jaskier ditches the rhymes and replaces them with… soft tunes. Basic, easy chords. 

“ _Do re mi fa so la ti do_.”

He can almost hear the accompanying strings, so simple even Geralt could manage them, if he were so inclined. Too simple for Jaskier, who, Geralt can admit, is talented enough to be practicing more complex concepts, even while half-asleep. 

All the same, the soft singing forms a pattern similar to earlier repetitions, though the flow is more appealing now that the nonsensical rhymes have been done away with. The simplicity must be unbearable for Jaskier and Geralt guesses that, with the bard’s short attention span, he’ll be hearing Jaskier fall asleep in a matter of minutes. 

Geralt shifts the pillow off his ears and under his head, figuring he might as well get comfortable while he waits. Through the thin layer of their small clothes, Geralt can feel the warmth of Jaskier beside him, a small, consistent fire. 

With this proximity, every movement is obvious, down to Jaskier’s breath and pulse. Geralt can almost _feel_ the song here, pressed against Jaskier as the minute deviation in his breaths outline the shape of the tune. 

He hears the bard’s heartbeat, faster than his own but no less steady, and imagines he can feel the warmth of him fluctuate slightly with each beat. The heartbeat takes the lead, pushing the music to the back of Geralt’s awareness until it disappears under a tide of drowsiness.

Jaskier’s breathing washes over him like gentle waves of warm water, pulling him down, down, down into the depths of a pleasant bath where he can’t- or doesn’t have to- think or remember anything. 

It’s only as he’s finally sinking into unconsciousness that he realizes Jaskier is still singing, the tune following him into easy, calm dreams. 

Jaskier listens to Geralt unconsciously humming along with a broad smile. The sound is simple enough that Geralt can literally carry it into his sleep, though he quickly falls out of tune with Jaskier as his dreams take firmer hold of him. 

Even after Geralt’s hum stops, Jaskier continues for a few more minutes, wanting to be sure the witcher is really asleep before he allows silence to fall over both of them. He watches carefully for any changes in Geralt’s breathing that would indicate him waking, then declares, to himself, that the coast is clear.

Jaskier lays down with near comical caution, knowing how sensitive the witcher can be to even the most silent creaking of inn beds. It seems like a bad idea to touch Geralt, as it carries the risk of upsetting this delicate balance, but he presses his arm closer, chasing the warmth of the contact close quarters has already forced. 

With a sigh, he closes his eyes and listens to Geralt sleep, hoping it will be enough to quiet his thoughts. It’s just like Geralt to fall asleep first and leave Jaskier hanging. 

Complaints find loose handholds in his mind, though whether they’ll hang on until morning is doubtful. Jaskier doesn’t concern himself with them, succumbing to the first tentative wave of sleepiness he’s felt all night.

As he goes under, there’s the vague worry that, at this rate, they’ll both wake up late and fall behind schedule but Jaskier doesn’t care about that. For now, everything is peaceful and warm and _right_.

His complaints and worries will be lost to his dreams, and Jaskier falls asleep with a smile, knowing that he’ll forever hold onto to this undeniable proof that Geralt _does_ like his singing. He dreams that they form a duo, him and the White Wolf, dancing on a stage. 

He’s out in minutes, still as a witcher in meditation. He and Geralt breathe not in sync, but as different parts of the same song.

**Author's Note:**

> I think it’s very clear from reading this that I don’t know anything about singing. I’m just imagining Jaskier basically doing like. Do re mi. And Geralt _losing_ it. 
> 
> Also, have you ever seen the video of Dan and Phil singing "danger men at work"? I imagine that’s how people warm up, but I don’t really know any better so. Use your imagination?
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
